Angels
by Zigzag268
Summary: Best friends forever, guy likes girl, girl doesn't like guy back... I made it a wee bit smutty because that's how I roll. AngelOC Oneshot now, can't think of anything to add


**I've never written a fic on X-men before and am not an _avid_ fan--I've only seen each movie once. Nonetheless, I was intrigued by the characters--one in particular--and have been itching to join the fanficdom.**

**Also, I've read up on some smut to prepare for writing one and discovered there was very little on my favorite character, Angel. If there was ever a character destined to be in a smutty, light-hearted fic, it was him. Yum.**

**That being said, do not read if anything over PG-13 offends you or makes you uncomfortable. This ain't for the little 'uns.**

**Enjoy!**

"Who is that?"

"I don't know. She comes in here every Wednesday, has a blueberry muffin and a white chocolate mocha. Then she sits there with a notebook and writes for an hour, sometimes more."

"What does she write?"

"I don't know. It's not my tendency to go up to my customers and inquire anything besides if they are enjoying their coffee."

"I was just wondering out loud."

"Feather."

"Hmm?"

"You have a feather on your... right... got it. Mind if I give this to my niece?"

"Go for it. She can have as many as she likes. I'm molting."

"So I've noticed. You left a trail of feathers into my store."

"Sorry."

"It looks like I strangled a seagull and dragged it in here."

"I said I'm--hey, there she goes! I'm gonna go talk to her."

"Good luck."

"Right. Here I go. I'm going now. What should I say? I'll figure it out when I get there. Here goes nothing."

"You know, to get somewhere, you have to actually _move_!"

"Don't push me!"

"Did you change your mind then?"

"Well, yeah. I'm not wearing my cologne. I probably smell horrible. Tomorrow, then."

"She's a mutant too, you know."

"Really? What kind?"

"I'm not sure. She doesn't have anything physically different than humans on her. Other than that, I can't tell."

"Is she psychic?"

"No. If she was, she'da left sooner, freaked out from all the dirty thoughts in your head about her."

"I told you not to read my mind!"

"I didn't. The look on your face was enough."

"Look? What look?"

"The glassy-eyed, slack-jawed, turned-on look."

"That was about the time I was picturing the threesome with you, her, and me."

"Ew. Touché. Are you going to talk to her next time then?"

"Yep."

"What are you going to say, hmm? 'Hi, my name's Warren. I have a really big... wingspan.'"

"You know what they say about guys with large wingspans."

"Yeah: they have really long feathers! Don't you wink at me."

Warren Worthington III watched the sun set, and unlike all the other observers of the decent of the celestial body, he was right up there with it. He floated on a thermal 300 feet above the beach, keeping a weary and inhumanely keen eye for any people that might happen to look up and see him. He felt shy about his aerial maneuvers, or lack thereof.

At sixteen years of age, when he had decided to discover if his wings were ornamental or useful, he had tested them by diving off the balcony of his 4 story mansion. He closed his eyes and leapt, expecting an unpleasant crash with the trampoline below him, and was surprised when his outstretched wings caught a pocket of air and propelled him 30 feet into the sky. So started was he that he panicked, folded his wings, and landed safely in his mother's oak tree.

Two weeks after, he launched himself off a parking garage. This time it was not his success that startled him, but rather the crowd of people who watched in horrified awe as a teenager prepared to leap off a building. The collective gasp from the audience resulted in a hasty bank towards the ground and he slammed into an SUV. It was a year before he gathered the courage to try anything aerial.

He had learned many essential things on his father's private beach--taking off, flapping, soaring, loops and flips, but never landing. He was usually satisfied with plopping himself in his pool or the surf, which was fine as he tended to overshoot the landing and crash painfully face first.

Warren climbed into the air with a powerful beat of his wings, the setting sun casting them into a pinkish hue, and he soared up the face of a plateau overlooking the Pacific Ocean. He skimmed the sandy top, flaring his wings suddenly, and placed his feet downward in anticipation of the landing. He flapped one last time then fell to the ground roughly.

Warren extended his arms and wings and let out a triumphant whoop to the ocean. He then tucked his wings in and turned to face his friend Amy.

"8.5," she said, unimpressed.

"I would have gone with at least a 9," he said. "I didn't get hurt."

"You still look like a blue-footed booby," she replied. "I want to get you up to at least eagle level."

"I find it acceptable when I don't injure myself. Other than that, I don't really care what I look like. Where are the sleeping bags?"

"Here," she said, gathering maroon and black bags from her backpack. She unrolled them and placed them a tuft of grass.

They sat on the edge of the cliff and watched the sun set. When the last of the orb had disappeared from the sky, the clouds that hovered over the sun turned bright yellow, then pink, then purple, then a magnificent kaleidoscope of every color imaginable.

"Amy?" said Warren seriously.

"Yes, Warren?"

He squirmed. "I have to pee." He grinned and looked at her for her reaction.

She pushed him off the cliff. He fell, extended his wings, and rose above her. Then he swooped down without warning and picked her up from under each arm. He caught a dying thermal and together they ascended 100 feet into the air.

She whooped in terror. "Put me down, Warren, putmedown!"

"Amy, let go!" he gasped. "Your nails are digging into my arm!"

Two hundred feet into the air and she had not yet lessened her death-grip on Warren's arm. Up that high, the only sound was her terrified panting.

"Amy," Warren whispered. "Open your eyes. I want you to see what I get to see."

She whimpered and squeezed one of her eyes open, then both went as wide as saucers. "Warren, it's beautiful," she whispered.

Warren smiled. He descended and gently let her go near the sleeping bags, dropped her 3 feet off the ground. Then he beat his powerful wings and soared upwards, catching a breeze that carried him parallel to the beach.

"Where are you going?" called Amy.

Warren's answer was carried by the wind. "I still have to pee!"

She smiled as she extracted her sleeping clothes from her backpack.

Warren woke with his best friend curled under his left wing. Sometime in the night he had shrugged his sleeping bag off and sprawled stomach down, every limb extended.

Amy moaned in her sleep and pulled Warren's downy wing over her like a blanket, curling tighter and shivering against the cold. Warren turned slightly and allowed his other wing to drape over her, to which she responded with a happy sigh. He smiled at her content.

She drove him crazy.

Everything about her made him smile, from her brown hair to her enormous blue eyes to her small nose to her angular cheeks. She was so cute, and Warren longed to have her. She had made it known early in their friendship that she was not interested in a relationship, that friends should not loose their position as such, because more-than-friends were a dime a dozen and they had something special and she did not want to risk losing him. He had respected her wish, thinking that it was better to have her as a friend than not at all. But oh how he wanted to tell her he loved her, to kiss her, make love to her... it hurt how much he wanted her. He sighed.

"Angel," whispered Amy in her sleep, stroking his soft down.

Warren almost moaned in desperation. He squeezed his eyes against the flood of emotions building up, from love to lust and everything in between. He felt his boxers becoming uncomfortably tight and decided it was time for a special morning flight. He covered Amy with two sleeping bags, careful not to disturb her.

Warren alighted from the cliff, stripped his boxers off and dropped them near Amy. He pumped his powerful wings and soared easily to a height of 300 feet, completely naked.

Warren climbed far up into the morning Pacific air and let his thoughts take him away.He slid his right hand down his stomach andpast his waist,and found he was already hard beforehe had even begun. Hemoaned ashe played with himself, and thrust faster and faster until his orgasm overwhelmed him and he shuddered with ecstacy. His wings seized and he fell over forty feet before getting his bearings and righting himself. His semen dripped and fell into the ocean far below.

He soared for a while more, enjoying the pleasurable sea breeze and the sun on his naked back, then took off in the direction of Amy. When he got close enough to their overnight camping spot, he saw she was awake and moving around. "Shit," he hissed. His boxers were right next to her.

He landed on the plateau facefirst before Amy could see him, then jumped up and covered himself with his wings.

She started, then looked at him with a puzzled expression on her face. When she saw his boxers and embarrassed expression, she put two and two together, giggled, and sat on his clothes.

"Amy, can I please have my boxers?" he pleaded.

She shook her head and settled into a more comfortable position atop his clothing.

Warren shrugged. "Fine," he said, and spread his wings nonchalantlyin a fake stretch.

Amydid not expect that. Shecleared her throat and fumbled for the correct piece of clothing. She stood up and handed it to him, trying to speak but unable to do so. Her ears were ringing and her stomach flipped, which wasn't an entirely unpleasent sensation. She hadn't felt this way for a long time.

She smiled coyly.

"What?" demanded Warren as he put his clothes on.

"I was just thinking; it's true what they say about guys with large wingspans."


End file.
